


Puppet Master

by LadyRhiyana



Category: Rurouni Kenshin, The Last Samurai (2003)
Genre: Bakumatsu, Gen, Politics, Some chapters are crossovers with the Last Samurai
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-30
Updated: 2019-03-30
Packaged: 2019-12-26 18:12:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 11,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18287594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyRhiyana/pseuds/LadyRhiyana
Summary: Various oneshots and snippets exploring the complicated relationship between Katsura and his deadliest hitokiri.Cross-posted from ff.net. Written over a period from 2006-2013.





	1. One Night

**Author's Note:**

> A peek into one busy night during the Bakumatsu: an assassination, a run-in with the Shinsengumi, and a contentious political meeting. Kenshin & Katsura WAFF, such as it is.

Matsumoto Shinichiro walked confidently through the dark, shadowed streets, unaware that flat, killer’s eyes followed his every move. Small circles of light preceded the proud, stubborn merchant –

_“He will not be intimidated. You must make an example of him.”_

Four bodyguards, the best money could buy, stood firm when he emerged from the shadows. He paused, allowed them to draw their swords before attacking. The first fell to his signature Battoujutsu, swift and deadly. The second was dead before the first collapsed. The third and fourth, shouting, charging forward, he disposed of in two short strokes –

Tenchuu struck down Matsumoto.

**

“Yo, Himura,” Iizuka said casually, leaning against the doorframe, watching without much interest as Battousai washed and dried his hands. It was almost a ritual, now, this post-assassination cleansing. “Katsura-san wants to see you.”

The young killer looked up, but there was no curiosity in those eyes, no spark of interest or life. Iizuka found it unnerving, sometimes. “Aa,” the boy said flatly. “I will be there.”

And then he turned his attention back to his eternal hand-washing. Exasperated, Iizuka stayed and watched a little while longer, but nothing more was volunteered – the conversation, it seemed, was at an end.

**

The screen slid back and someone entered unannounced, but Katsura knew exactly who it was. Silent footsteps, perfectly balanced, stopped just behind him, and Himura knelt and placed his swords by his side.

“Katsura-san,” the child-killer acknowledged.

“Himura. How did it go?”

“He is dead.”

Other men spoke overlong and said nothing; Himura spoke only when pertinent.

“I must be in Shimabara later tonight. Will you accompany me?” Normally when he attended meetings, Katsura had other bodyguards by his side, but tonight he felt uneasy –

“You think it dangerous?”

“It may be.”

There was a small pause. “I will come.”

**

Katsura, who controlled hitokiri Battousai, feared assassination in turn. All his senses engaged, walking warily, Kenshin knew Katsura was right – the moon was dark, and death trembled in the air. In the distance they could hear shouts and skirmishing –

“Shinsengumi?” Katsura asked.

Kenshin listened closely, drew Katsura into the shadowy alley mouth, and doused the light. 

Moments later, the night erupted – a ragged group, stumbling; blue-coated warriors in pursuit. Kenshin’s hand tightened on his sword, but Katsura restrained and steadied him: 

_“You cannot save everyone,”_ said cold, hard-won experience.

Before their eyes, the Shinsengumi, merciless and implacable, killed them all.

**

Himura could have saved the rebels, Katsura knew. He could have slaughtered the entire troop of Shinsengumi – but it would have drawn attention to their presence in the alley, negating years of patient work. Kyoto was no place for idealists, not when competing, ambitious leaders used men as blades, expecting – _needing_ – them to be hard, tempered steel.

Sometimes he forgot how young Himura truly was. 

Before reality taught hard-earned lessons, all boys believed that swords, honour, and passion could change the world. Some fortunate men believed it lifelong. Katsura, however, knew that it took sacrifice, compromise, and heartless political expedience.

**

_Look at him,_ Miyabe thought. _With a killer like that by his side, still he holds back._

Between them, Katsura and Takasugi had forged a powerful alliance. Yet, while Takasugi actively built up his army with Western money and arms, Katsura played at assassination, spinning useless intrigues at a decadent, powerless court. Why didn’t he _do_ something? Why not take the Emperor _now_ , and _force_ the Shogun to acknowledge them?

“No,” Katsura said implacably, his crimson shadow a silent warning. “We cannot act precipitously. Wait.”

“They are dangerous men,” Kenshin said, after the meeting.

“Yes,” Katsura agreed. “Hot-headed, heavy-handed fools.”

**

They headed back to the inn in the pre-dawn darkness. Kyoto was stirring, shadows and shadow killers giving way to farmers and workers, the first rays of light falling with equal indifference on Matsumoto and his bodyguards and the slaughtered rebels. 

Katsura stopped in the market and bought onigiri, sharing with Himura as they heard the latest rumours. _Did you hear_ , the vendor asked, and Katsura shook his head gravely, aware of Himura’s increasing unease in the growing light.

“Katsura-san,” the hitokiri murmured, shifting restlessly.

“Aa,” he answered, thanking the vendor. “I’m coming.”

Together, they faded back into the shadows.


	2. Old Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why did it take the government so long to catch up with Kenshin? My theory is that he had friends in very high places. In 1870, Katsura makes Kenshin one last promise.

1870

Yokohama.

The strange, Western style carriage conveyed him swiftly along the docks, the rattle of the wheels and the horses’ hooves loud and intrusive. He would greatly prefer to travel on foot or on horseback, but appearances, as he well knew, were vitally important – especially when dealing with foreigners. He was a high-ranking Imperial Minister now, not an anonymous rebel leader.

One thing, at least, had not changed – three bodyguards flanked the carriage, their eyes alert and constantly searching for danger. Since he first came to prominence among the Choshu rebels, he hadn’t taken a single step without guards beside and behind him. Times and circumstances had changed, fierce samurai guards becoming tight-lipped soldiers in western-inspired uniform, but these men, or men like them, had been with him through the Bakumatsu, the civil war, and beyond, and he trusted them absolutely.

There had only ever been one man in whom he had placed more trust – but Himura was gone, now. Katsura had deliberately turned his back and let him go, knowing that others would not scruple to bind him to the new government. The new era had not miraculously dawned with the Emperor’s ascension; there was still great need for hitokiri, and shadow killers.

But not the fey, tragic child-killer, Battousai. Not if Katsura could help it.

As the carriage pulled up and one of his bodyguards dismounted, hurrying to let down the step so he could descend, Katsura looked out across the Yokohama docks, a bustling mixture of sailors, porters, merchants, guards, thieves and criminals of all kinds. For a moment, he blinked. One of the guards was a short, slight figure wearing a straw hat that cast his face into deep shadow. Memory struck, and he saw Kyoto, smelled the rank air of intrigue, treachery and blood –

The figure turned, and the bright sun caught the trailing edge of his long hair, bringing copper fire to life against a faded, patched gi. As he stared, shocked and amazed, the man glanced back at him, and Katsura knew. 

It was Himura.

Across the distance, across the years, they stared at each other, until Katsura inclined his head and made a small, short hand gesture that they had both known very well during the Revolution.

Himura nodded.

**

Later that night, alone in his room, Katsura felt more than heard the shadow enter through the window. Despite himself, he felt a thrill of fear –

“Katsura-san,” came the low, soft voice.

The darkness in his room was too thick to see much more than shadowy outlines, but he knew that voice, and he knew that presence – it had stood at his back more times than he cared to remember.

“Himura,” he acknowledged, relaxing. “It has been a long time.”

“Two years,” Himura answered. There was a soft whisper of sound, and Katsura imagined him placing his sword by his side and kneeling, silently as always. “You are an important Minister now. Congratulations.”

Katsura laughed softly. “And you have just evaded the administrator’s security and entered my room without alerting my bodyguards. You have not lost your skills.”

There was a moment of taut silence. “I am what you trained me to be, Katsura-san. Why did you ask me to meet you, if you only wanted to test me? I proved myself to you seven years ago.”

“ _Suman_ , Himura,” Katsura bowed his head in apology. “I did not wish to test you. I wished to speak with you one last time – there were things unsaid, at Toba Fushimi.” He felt rather than saw Himura relax. “It has been two years since the new era began.” It was easier to speak like this, in the dark, without having to look this man in the eye and see what he had made of him. “In that time there have been numerous challenges to the new regime, many of them coming close to destroying us. Every time we face a new threat, my compatriots come to me and demand that I recall you.”

“Katsura-san –”

“No, Himura, I have not been keeping tabs on you. When you left, I did not want to know where you went, so that I could truly say you had disappeared. But there will always be someone who will try to seek you out. I want you to know that I will protect you, for as long as I can…”

His voice trailed off into silence, filled with old memories and old regrets. Thus it had been at Otsu, when he had apologized for the girl’s death and Himura had first told him of his intention to leave when the fighting was over. Thus it had been at the last at Toba Fushimi, when Himura had laid his two swords on the ground, bowed deeply, and left silently, noiselessly, like a ghost of ancient legend. Thus it was now, when, seven years too late, he promised to protect a young, idealistic boy from those who would use his skills for their own ends – even himself.

He could feel Himura’s eyes on him, and wondered, not for the first time, just how much the former assassin could see in the dark.

“Thank you, Katsura-san.” There was a soft rustle, a sense of movement, as Kenshin bowed, and moved soundlessly towards the window. If Katsura had not been so familiar with how quietly and gracefully he moved, he would not have sensed the window sliding open –

“Himura,” he said, one last time, “I never thanked –”

“You did not need to.” And with that, he was gone.

Katsura stayed as he was, kneeling in the shadows, until the open window finally drew his bodyguards’ attention.

**

1878

“I don’t believe it, Yamagata-sama. Hitokiri Battousai? It’s been more than ten years since he walked away from Toba Fushimi – how could he have stayed hidden for so long? A red-headed man, with such a distinctive scar on his cheek; surely someone would have reported him.”

Yamagata’s mouth tightened. “He had friends in _very_ high places.”

“Then why would he choose to be a vagabond? If I had such important connections, I would have made use of them for sure…”

The general tuned out the captain of the sword police’s mindless remarks and thought of the man he had seen that morning. Himura Kenshin, the rurouni, was very different from what he had once been, ten years ago. Ten years of aimless wandering that had seen his extraordinary skills squandered on peasants when they should have been used for Japan, in the defense and protection of the Meiji government.

What had Katsura been thinking, to simply let him go? And then to use all of his considerable influence to keep him in obscurity. Ten years had been wasted by one man’s indulgence and misplaced guilt.

But no longer.

Katsura was dead, now.


	3. An Honourable Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In 1877, during Saigo Takamori's rebellion, Katsura and Okubo talk of honour, of weapons, and of the future of Japan.

1877

“He has risen against us,” Okubo said flatly.

Katsura did not look at him. “Aa,” he answered. “I know. Did you really expect him to back down?”

“I did not expect him to be such a fool. Does he think that he and his band of disaffected samurai can bring back the old ways?”

“He is a charismatic man, and his message is a popular one. Many people believe we are betraying Japan with such rapid Westernisation.” Thoughtfully, Katsura tossed some breadcrumbs to the koi at his feet, circling aimlessly within the confines of their man-made pond.

They stood in the gardens of the Imperial palace in Kyoto, two men in Western dress, far removed from the radical revolutionaries they had once been. Now, they had to save the government they had fought so hard to create.

“Stiff-necked pride,” Okubo growled. “Hide-bound fools, so blinded by the past that they can’t see the future.” He clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace back and forth.

Still, Katsura watched the circling fish, his expression calm and thoughtful. Pacing past him, Okubo spared him an irritated glance. “Well, Katsura? What are you thinking, with that look on your face?”

“I have heard you use those words before. Eleven years ago, when we first spoke of joining forces against the Bakufu.”

A snort. “Another irony. We are beset by them. –Do you still fear assassination?”

Fine, intelligent eyes flicked to meet Okubo’s, a spark of hidden amusement graven in their depths. “Saigo-san is too honourable.”

“An anachronism. We don’t need _honourable_ men, Katsura; we need flexible men, who understand the price of greatness and power.”

“This government was built on the blood of honourable men who knew nothing of power.”

“Don’t say that Saigo did not desire power.” Okubo’s mouth tightened. “Or tell me that every man who died for sonno-joi was a hero. You are not such a fool –”

“No.” Katsura shook his head. “No, Saigo has his flaws, most of them larger than life like he is. And, as you say, many of our fellow Imperialists fought for their own advancement – but you mistake my point, Okubo. For every man who sought profit, there were two more sincere in their beliefs. And when those good men see the government _opening_ to the foreigners –”

“How else did they think Takasugi bought those guns?”

Katsura ignored the incredulous interjection. “We can no longer eliminate troublemakers and naysayers. They have gained too powerful a leader. And those honourable, inflexible samurai who fought for us, for the Emperor, will now see no choice but to turn against us.”

“Eliminate? You had a much stronger word for it, ten years ago.” Okubo, watching, saw Katsura tense. Now they came to the true point of the discussion.

“We all have our ghosts.”

“Yes; you most of all. Your Battousai was an honourable man. Has he joined the rebellion?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know.” The words were slow, accusing; this was an old, old dispute between them. “You should never have let go of him, but having let him go, you should never have lost track of him; _ten years_ , Katsura; the most dangerous killer in Japan roaming free for anyone to use –”

“You mistake him,” Katsura said, his voice harder now. “He is not samurai; he will not turn against the government he helped create. His honour is of a different sort.”

Okubo clenched his fists. “A sword that cannot kill, used only in defense of the people? Yes, I have heard the rumours, Katsura – not even your influence can cover his trail completely. This…rurouni quest for atonement is naïve in the extreme.”

“Perhaps. But I do know one thing – he will not allow anyone to use him or his blade again.”

“He will not allow it? Or you will not allow it?”

There was a minute pause, a small silence. Katsura deliberately turned his attention back to the koi pond. “Hitokiri Battousai has served his purpose,” he said mildly. “Do you truly wish to see him resurrected? I thought you sought to bring us all into the future.” And then, feeling the other’s irritation, he smiled slightly. “Do not cross me on this, old friend. I have given my word.”

“Your word?” Okubo scowled. “I have dedicated my life to strengthening Japan. Twenty, even ten years ago, we were weak, vulnerable; it will take another twenty at least before we are strong enough to be safe. We cannot afford internal dissent, Katsura. And we cannot allow weapons such as Himura Battousai out of our control.”

“I know. Intellectually I know it, and you are quite right – but there is more to life than chess and politics, Okubo. Having won our fight, we must make sure we do not destroy all that we have fought for – that is why so many follow Saigo, and speak out against our modernization though they know they can no longer live in the past. Because Japan is more than an intangible ideal, and Himura is more than a weapon. He is a man – in the end, we are all just men.”

Okubo considered the man who had helped him destroy the Tokugawa, and worked so hard to create a new world in its place. Katsura was a good five, six years younger than he, but his normally straight shoulders were slumped, and his eyes were dull and shadowed. “You are tired,” he said in some surprise. “I know you have not been in the best of health, but –” “Don’t worry. I’m not going to die just yet.”

Okubo smiled slowly. “No,” he repeated. “We have come too far to die now – and there is still so much farther left to go. Once Saigo is defeated, and the samurai no longer resist our changes…”

Katsura smiled ruefully. Together, they walked through the beautifully kept traditional gardens, guiding the future course of Japan’s modernization.


	4. An Honourable Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the night before Saigo Takamori's last battle, Kenshin tries one last time to persuade him.

23 September 1877

The night was dark, the wind high and gusty. Restless horses stamped and whinnied, and men on both sides gathered close, huddling round the fire’s warmth as they peered uneasily into the darkness. Kenshin wondered if they sensed him, somehow, instincts older than reason reacting to the predator in their midst – 

Ghosting through the camp, he crept from shadow to shadow, making his way towards the commander’s tent. He slipped past the half-dozing guards without making a sound, until finally he parted the rear flaps and stepped silently in. 

Saigo Takamori knelt in stone-faced meditation before a small, portable shrine. Bittersweet incense wreathed up to heaven in coils of blue-grey smoke, and a small brazier provided both light and warmth. “Hitokiri Battousai,” he said neutrally, his eyes still closed. 

“Somehow, I knew I would see you again.” 

** 

Kenshin had first heard the rumours in Kagoshima, in a rowdy, run-down waterfront tavern. Drunken Satsuma soldiers had exclaimed loudly against the Meiji government, abusing cowardly, avaricious Councillors and speaking with admiration of Saigo’s opposition to their policies. Kenshin recognized some of these men, brave fighters who had fought with great courage to bring about the very government they derided. 

It was no more than a handful of years since the Restoration, and already the cracks were showing. The first hint of dissent came in 1873, when Saigo publicly opposed the government’s rapid restructuring and Westernisation, and criticised the increasingly commercial focus of the changes. In this, he spoke for most of the samurai who had been disadvantaged and alienated by the new laws – even Kenshin, who bore too much guilt to protest against the new era, could see that the government was drifting away from the original ideals of the Revolution. The results could be seen on every street and large town in Japan: dispossessed ronin, increased violence and crime, poverty and hunger – 

Kenshin’s dream of peace and prosperity was tempered by grim reality now. 

When, in the same year, Saigo’s proposal for a military invasion of Korea was vetoed due to budgetary concerns, he resigned from the Council in disgust and returned to Kagoshima. Around him, he gathered supporters and admirers: dispossessed samurai, former Ishin Shishi, and fiery, intelligent young men with their own grievances; with such potential for trouble, it was never going to be long before the government’s reforms were too much for their pride and honour to stomach.

** 

“Saigo-san,” Kenshin murmured respectfully, drawing the sheathed sakabatou from his obi and kneeling on the damp, crushed grass. “It has been a long time.”

The Satsuma leader had not changed much, in the past ten years. Other former revolutionaries cut their hair and aped Western dress and manners, but Saigo still clung to tradition: he was _samurai_ , proud and honourable, and nothing, not the Westerners, not the government, not even the Emperor himself could ever take that away from him.

Not even death. Because death would set the final seal, and turn him into a legend.

“And are you still the government’s dog, Himura? Has Okubo sent you to do what the whole Imperial army cannot?” 

That deep, commanding voice had so often disapproved of Kenshin and the role he had played in the Bakumatsu. Katsura’s campaign of assassination, Saigo had said, and often, was dishonourable and unworthy of a samurai. Katsura had replied that the results spoke for themselves: their message was spreading, and every day discontented samurai poured into their ranks, united in their desire to overthrow the Shogunate. 

_Tenchuu_ , he’d said, was the catalyst. And Battousai was its arbiter. 

“I am no longer a hitokiri,” he said calmly. “I left the Ishin Shishi after Toba Fushimi, when the war was all but won.”

“So you say. But for a shadow killer, you did not hide yourself very well – you have made quite a noise, Battousai, in your wonderings. Bandits that local officials could not defeat. Die-hard Tokugawa loyalists. Former revolutionaries, disillusioned with the new regime: all of them neutralized and left alive to add to the legend and threat of hitokiri Battousai.”

Kenshin stiffened. “If you are implying, Saigo-san –”

“I am not implying anything. You met with Katsura five years ago, on the Yokohama docks. Since then, you have been able to move about with absolute impunity.” 

Suddenly, Saigo seemed angry, his voice hard, cold and disapproving. “When I first met you, Himura, I thought you an honourable man. A naïve, innocent fool, but honourable nevertheless. How can you countenance this lie, this deception? You are simply another tool of lying, greedy power mongers, even less of a man than you were as the hitokiri. Then, you fought to bring down a corrupt government. And now you fight to keep it in power!”

Kenshin’s hand clenched, hard, on the hilt of his sword. He glared at Saigo’s back, at the perfect, easy posture of a seasoned warrior, the proud lift of his head. It was pride, arrogance, confidence, that allowed Saigo to sit with his back as an open target, while he levelled such accusations at the deadliest killer of the Bakumatsu. 

“I am no longer an agent of the government,” he repeated, his voice low and firm. “I came to speak to you.”

“To join me?” Such scorn and contempt.

“No.” 

Months ago, before the rebellion broke out into outright war, he might have tried to dissuade Saigo from going down this route. But he had been laid up in the mountains with fever, unable to do anything as the peace he had fought so hard to secure was torn apart. Saigo was a stern man, honourable, dutiful, but he was proud, and strong-willed; once he committed himself to a course of action, he would never turn aside. 

He had gone too far to turn back, now. 

“To see you,” Kenshin murmured, “before the end. I would have come months ago –”

“No,” Saigo said. “No, you wouldn’t have. You are not samurai, to care if our stipends are cut and our way of life destroyed. You have no family, to grieve as they are sold into prostitution and thievery because the merchants strip us of everything they can. You have no pride, to bridle as the government whores itself to the foreigners and dismantles the very order of society to remake itself in their image.” 

Kenshin made a low, dismayed grunt, as if he had just been struck in the diaphragm. 

“You will never rebel against your masters, Himura, because you feel the blood on your hands would not allow it. I say that you will only create more victims, stand aside and allow the government to create more misery –”

“No!” Kenshin snapped, rising to his feet before he could stop himself, his thumb automatically flicking the tang of his sword, freeing the blade the tiniest fraction – 

Outside, the guards stirred restlessly. Kenshin subsided, settling back into _seiza_ and sheathing his sakabatou. 

“You do not believe me,” he said, after he had regained his composure. “Very well. I assure you that _I_ have not come to kill you; it does not mean there won’t be others.” 

He had the astonishing impression, then, that Saigo was laughing… “You’ve surprised me, Battousai. You’re not as naïve as I thought. Did you take them out?”

He said nothing. 

“Go, then,” Saigo said finally. “You have done your part, but you know it is too late: right will be decided on the field of battle. This is not something that can be settled in the shadows.”

Kenshin bowed, sincerely respectful. “Sayonara,” he murmured. It was all he could say: not good luck, nor any last appeals to reason or humanity. Only goodbye. He picked up his sword, rose to his feet, and slipped silently out of the tent. 

When he was gone, Saigo closed his eyes once more and returned to his meditations with a whole heart and an undivided mind. 

Tomorrow would come. 

And he would meet it as befitted a samurai.

** 

Later, he would hear the tale wherever he went: on the roads and in the taverns, in the fields and in the villages, they would tell of the battle of Shiroyama and the death of Saigo Takamori. They would speak of how, when the battle was lost, Saigo knelt on the field and ended it as a samurai should, committing seppuku with his trusted friend to act as a second – 

An honourable death, they would say, their hearts and imaginations caught. And Saigo, with his death, would become a legend that would never die.


	5. The Demon's Path

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains salvaged scenes from a since-deleted story I wrote called "Gai-Jin".

I.

The meeting was not going well.

Katsura, Saigo Takamori and Sakamoto Ryoma had been closeted together for more than two hours, their voices rising and falling in discussion, in speculation, and in argument as they spoke. Kenshin, kneeling in the corner, listened more to the rhythm of the meeting than the details, but he could sense the undercurrents of unease and indecision flowing between them. He kept a cautious eye on the other bodyguards, all kneeling discreetly, as he was, all concentrating on every sharp, sudden movement in the room. Many of them, in fact, were watching him extremely closely – 

There was a growl of dissent, a sharp exchange of words, and Katsura stood up and walked out. Kenshin followed suit, emerging into the hallway at Katsura’s heels, his eyes carefully blank. “Are we leaving?” was all he asked. 

Katsura flicked him a look. “There is nothing more to be gained here. We might as well go back.”

Kenshin nodded. They walked out into the street in silence, Kenshin going ahead, making sure the way was safe – a strange reversal of his normal role that he still had trouble adjusting to. It was so much harder to protect a man’s life than to take it.

“I believe we have a dangerous leak.” Katsura spoke suddenly, his cool words falling like stones in the dark night. “One of our liaisons with the foreigners has turned. Saigo insists that we eliminate him.”

One by one, Kenshin’s muscles stiffened as he tensed, an involuntary reaction to what Katsura-san had not yet asked. “Shishio will be happy to oblige,” he said tersely. His hand clenched on his sword hilt, and he forced himself to breathe slowly and deeply. 

“Shishio… No.” Katsura’s voice was low and grave. “I know that you have relinquished the role of hitokiri, Himura, but this time we need a subtlety, a discretion, that Shishio simply does not possess.”

Kenshin searched the Choshu leader’s face, knowing that he would see only what Katsura wished him to see. Now that he no longer blankly followed orders, Kenshin was becoming more and more aware of the other man’s manipulations – but it could not all have been a lie. Surely that quiet, flexible strength and understanding was not entirely feigned. 

“Why?” he asked simply.

“If Yasuda believes that we have found him out – and he would be a fool not to fear it – he will seek protection from the foreigners. To kill him, the assassin would have to reach him in the midst of the foreign trading enclaves at Yokohama – and you know as well as I the price for murdering a gai-jin.”

Shimonoseki. 

Yes, Kenshin knew the price of a foreigner’s life. 

***

II.

The next day, Himura was still turning it over, considering the consequences and the terrible toll of such an assassination. Katsura recognized the pensive, closed look on that youthful, innocent face – the look of a man who has learned that every choice he made had painful consequences, and that no matter which path he took, people would still die. 

It was a look he saw on his own face, sometimes. 

But Katsura had embarked on this course willingly, in the full knowledge of what it would entail. Himura had not had the luxury of such a choice; he had brought him into the game an innocent pawn, unable to understand the price he would pay for his ideals. 

Another deliberate step on the demon’s path. A choice made, willingly, ruthlessly; given the choice, he would do it again, even knowing what would happen. 

Madness. Justice. Yoshida-sensei had advocated extreme, unflinching ruthlessness in the face of overwhelming oppression, and Katsura had embraced this philosophy wholeheartedly. Over the years, his goals had changed, his focus shifted, but the one single, overriding dream remained – Japan, united, strong enough to resist the encroaching Westerners, powerful enough to take its rightful place as an equal in the forefront of the world. 

The old kingdom had fallen, rotted from within, but Japan would survive, and thrive, in the new world he would create in fire and blood. 

**

Below their balcony, the busy, deceptively peaceful streets of Kyoto bustled, a glimpse into normal, every day humanity, alien, now, to himself and to Katsura both. Men, women and children went about their business, marketing, haggling over fruit and vegetables, concerned about getting the best value for their money, discussing the latest murders with shuddering horror and fear, and then shrugging their shoulders and turning their attention to the latest neighbourhood gossip. 

He wondered, bitterly, if any of them cared that an Ishin spy had run to the foreigners, and that the whole Satsuma-Choshu alliance teetered on the edge of a sword, which could not – _could not_ – be turned against the foreigners. He wondered if any of them cared that he had murdered hundreds of men in _their_ name – 

“Himura,” Katsura said, a brief touch on his shoulder drawing him out of his dark reverie. “You look very fierce.”

“Katsura-san. I was thinking.”

His leader, the man he had willingly followed down the road to hell, knelt down beside him and watched the street for a time. Kenshin wondered what he saw. 

“Of Yokohama?”

“No,” he answered, rather curtly. “Of foreigners.”

“Oh?” He sensed, rather than saw the sidelong look. 

“I thought,” Kenshin murmured, “that sonno-joi was about casting the foreigners out.” 

There was a moment of silence.

“But you’ve been dealing with them, haven’t you? Takasugi-san’s gunship, and the rifles for his Kihetai – all purchased from foreign merchants, with money supplied by foreign governments.”

Katsura sighed. “We tried, in the beginning, to deal with the gai-jin as we would other invaders. We fired on their ships, and they showed us the true power of their modern ships. We killed one of them because he did not show the proper respect, and they retaliated with more force than we could ever have imagined.”

He turned to look at Kenshin, those fine, grave eyes dark, intent, and fanatical. “Our isolation, our safety from the outside world betrayed us – if we are to defeat them now, Himura, it must be with their own weapons. But,” and here he smiled, a little cruelly, “they will sow the seeds of their own defeat. Their traders risk their money, competing for future concessions and favours from the men they believe will be the new government; they pour money into our cause. We will take their money, their weapons, and their technology, and turn it to our own ends – and then we will force them to deal with us once more, on our terms this time.”

It was clear that Katsura saw this as fitting. The irony of the thought pleased him, and Kenshin was reminded once more of the gap between a high-ranking, educated samurai, and a boy raised in isolation on the mountains. He knew the history, because he had knelt on guard through too many meetings and policy discussions, but he could only see the rebels’ choices as hypocrisy.

“That is why it’s so important that Yasuda be eliminated without any foreign casualties. If there is another death, then the merchants will be up in arms…”

Kenshin drew in his breath. “They will know that it was the Ishin Shishi who killed their pet informant.”

“Of course they will. But he is a traitor; they will expect us to try to kill him. They cannot retaliate if it is only one more dead Japanese.”

It was chilling, in its classification of acceptable and unacceptable deaths. But he had come this far on the demon’s road. Could he in good conscience say, thus far and no further?  
He sighed. “Very well, Katsura-san. I will go to Yokohama.”

*** 

III

“Will he do it?” Saigo Takamori asked, hands clasped behind his back as he paced back and forth, his famous displeasure with assassination and intrigue all too apparent. 

Sakamoto Ryoma threw Katsura a questioning glance. He knew the Choshu leader’s affection for the boy, Himura, the odd consideration that he showed him in return for his uncommon loyalty. He also knew the extent of Katsura’s commitment to the cause.

“He knows how important it is that Yasuda dies,” Katsura said curtly. 

“It is not just a matter of Yasuda’s death,” Saigo snapped. “Else we’d have finished him ourselves, long since. Surely he knows the delicate implications of this mission. What are his scruples, against the success of the Revolution? He is only _one_ man.”

Only one man, Katsura thought. One man, whose sword had created so many opportunities – one man, who had lost or sacrificed everything, in his service to the Revolution. 

“And, after all, it’s only one more assassination.”


	6. Toba Fushimi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kenshin takes his leave of Katsura after Toba Fushimi.

At first victory was no more than a rumour, whispered reports trickling in from the field, carried by exhausted messengers on lathered mounts. As the hours passed and the light faded, Katsura waited patiently, his face flat and unreadable, nothing in his manner to show that the revolutionaries had gambled everything on this one, pivotal confrontation. 

“I don’t know how you can be so calm,” Saigo Takamori growled, pacing back and forwards, back and forwards, his restless energy filling the small, stark meeting room. “When we are _this_ close to everything we’ve ever worked for –”

On the other side of the room, Sakamoto Ryoma shook his head. “It does no good to exhaust yourself, Saigo. It is out of our hands now.”

One burning glance was enough to convey just what Saigo thought of his compatriot’s calm fatalism. But the sound of whispered, urgent discussions outside drew Katsura’s attention away from Saigo’s scowl; he turned his head as, with a discreet tap, the shoji screen was slid aside and the captain of his bodyguards entered the room. Uchiyo, unshaven and villainous, bowed, and then knelt down to whisper in Katsura’s ear.

“He is here, sir.”

Immediately, Katsura rose to his feet and, bowing, excused himself before following Uchiyo from the room. 

*** 

Himura waited in the outer courtyard, a dark shadow in the night. The metallic smell of blood and acrid gunpowder were strong in the air, and as Katsura’s eyes adjusted to the faint moonlight, he saw that the younger man’s clothes were ripped and tattered, stained with mud and blood and worse. But for the first time in years, Himura seemed calm, almost, no longer taut and hyper-alert. Almost, it looked as though he was at peace – 

“Forgive me, Katsura-san,” Himura bowed, his usual grace dulled by exhaustion. “I have come straight from the battlefield.”

Katsura’s heart began to beat faster, swift and eager with anticipation. Himura was not wearing the _daisho_ that had been his constant companions for nearly five years. 

“We have prevailed, then?” he asked. 

“The Bakufu’s troops were routed,” Himura said. “It is the beginning of the end.” He looked straight at Katsura, his golden-brown eyes direct and steady, almost as an equal. “You have enough momentum to push the revolution through, now; there is no longer need for shadow killers.”

There would always be need for shadow killers. The revolution was nearing its peak, and the restoration had only just begun; there were many more stages before the great work was complete. But Katsura did not attempt to dissuade Himura from leaving. 

The bargain had been agreed between them years ago, in Otsu, with Tomoe’s pale, still body a cold, impartial witness: Battousai would kill for them until the Ishin Shishi could emerge from the shadows and fight their war in the light. And then he would vanish, and no one would ever command his blade again. Not if Katsura had anything to do with it.

“Battousai has played his part,” Katsura said. “You broke the Bakufu, Himura, laid the foundations; there are others, now, who will build on them.” 

Himura bowed again. “That is enough, then.” And he turned, as if to vanish into the shadows once more. 

All at once, Katsura could not let him go without one more thing.

“…Kenshin,” he said, staying the assassin’s departure. When he saw Himura pause, turn back, he fought to put all his unspoken cares into words. “If I have caused you harm in my ambitions, then I am sorry for it. But without you, none of this would have been possible.” And then, because he could feel the shape of the future, he gave one last piece of advice to the young, naive boy he’d brought to Kyoto. “…Be careful, Himura. There are others, out there, who will seek to control you. And failing that, they will seek to kill you.” 

***

After he was gone, a dark shadow vanished in the night, Katsura signalled to Uchiyo. 

“Gather your most trusted men,” he ordered. “You know what to do.”

To his mind, it was not hypocrisy. Battousai was by far the more dangerous swordsman, but there was no malice in him, no ambition – Shishio was the one to be feared. Katsura was willing to allow Himura to live in the new era he had fought so hard to usher in, but some deep, instinctive part of him knew that for his vision of Meiji to prosper, Shishio must be destroyed. 

Uchiyo could be relied on. He would see that the necessary work was done. 

His mind busy calculating the Ishin Shishi’s next steps, charting the progress of the restoration in the weeks, months and years to come, Katsura turned away from the dark night and headed back into the brightly-lit house.


	7. Native Myths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Saigo/Katsumoto speaks of hitokiri Battousai, the night before his last battle. An exploratory crossover with the Last Samurai.

“Tell me of this “Battousai,” the American asks.

The cherry blossoms bloom in Katsumoto’s garden, their ephemeral beauty an ache in his heart. They have already started to shed, splashes of colour vivid on the dark earth. 

“The men will tell you he was a demon,” Katsumoto murmurs. “They will say many things, out of fear, out of envy, even out of awe. You know how rumours and tales can grow into legend and myth,” he says, looking at the American, the man of violence, the scholar. “I have seen it in your journals.”

Algren nods, his dark eyes serious and intelligent. 

“Battousai was a phenomenal swordsman, it is true. But when he first pledged his sword to the Revolution, he was no more than a young, naïve boy. It was Katsura who made him into a nightmare, a shadow, to strike fear into the hearts of our enemies.”

Katsumoto pauses a moment to remember Himura Kenshin, standing at Katsura’s shoulder with his terrifying, almost fanatical golden gaze. Choshu’s shadow assassin. Katsura’s Battousai. 

“Will they send him against us?” The American puts his hand to his sword, an automatic gesture; he has the heart of a samurai, this one, but holding Ujio to a draw with bokken is nothing, _nothing_ , to what he would face against Battousai.

Katsumoto smiles grimly. They said that Battousai had walked away after Toba Fushimi, his part in the Revolution played. But no leader would willingly have surrendered such a weapon. Especially not one as canny and ruthless as Katsura.

These scattered reports of the _rurouni_ , the wandering swordsman upholding the peace and stability of the Meiji regime, were entirely too convenient.

“They will be fools if they do not.”


	8. Introductions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another RK/Last Samurai crossover. Captain Algren is introduced to Katsura.

The heat was stifling. Katsura chafed in his Western-style clothes, the tight coat and trousers confining and uncomfortable. He hated these formal receptions, bowing and smiling at gai-jin come to marvel at the Asian country who dared aspire to “civilisation”. Still, just as he had smiled at their condescension and taken their money and guns during the Revolution, he would smile at them now and take their technical knowledge and expertise.

They may think what they please, he had told Katsumoto once. One day we will be strong enough that we no longer need them.

“…Ah, Katsura-sama,” an oily voice spoke, and Katsura turned to see Omura bearing down on him, smiling with false bonhomie, two unfamiliar gai-jin and the Englishman, Graham, in tow. “May I introduce you to two guests who have come a very long way to lend us their expertise.”

Katsura bowed slightly, shook their hands, his eye going from the tall, fair gai-jin – Colonel Bagley, with the cold eyes of a born politician – to the shorter, bearded dark one, angry, resentful, and contemptuous. Captain Algren, of penny-dreadful fame, who seemed to hate his reputation and all those who would trade on it, himself included.

“And, of course, you remember Mr. Graham, the English interpreter.”

By the look on the Englishman’s face, Mr Graham most certainly remembered him. A scholarly, wide-eyed innocent among the cutthroat politics of the Bakumatsu, in love with all things Japanese, Graham had been disastrously frank in his dealings with both sides, to the point where he soon found himself running for his life.

Katsura, unaccountably fond of the little round man, had sent Himura to aid him. 

The tall American colonel spoke, his strange blue eyes steady, his voice confident. 

“Colonel Bagley wishes to reassure you,” Omura translated, radiating satisfaction, “that with his and Captain Algren’s expert training, our own Imperial army will soon be strong enough to crush Katsumoto’s uprising.”

Katsura let his eyes drift to the Englishman, who was suddenly looking uncomfortable. For two long months, as he hid among the Ishin Shishi, the interpreter had taught Katsura to speak some English – certainly enough to understand that the American had just promised to crush not Katsumoto’s uprising, but the samurai’s. 

Still, he only bowed politely and murmured pleasantries in return, revealing nothing of his thoughts. The Americans were Omura’s creatures, and Omura had come to power not through the chaos of the Bakumatsu, but through headlong modernisation, commercial development and sheer avarice. 

Twenty years ago Katsura would have cut him down on principle, despising everything he represented. He was older, now, perhaps wiser, more versed in compromise and political expediency. Katsumoto’s rebellion was doomed, serving only to hasten the end he sought to avert, and Katsura would not aid him in his reckless folly and be dragged down with him. The world had changed, irrevocably, with the coming of the Black Ships, and there was no way to return to what they once were.

********* 

Much later, as the clock ticked away the hours of the early morning, Algren tossed back another glass of whiskey and leafed through Graham’s collection of garish, lurid paintings of samurai. Before the whiskey, before the Indian wars, Algren had once been fascinated by other peoples and their differences: these paintings, with their mad, exaggerated ferocity, seemed to show another side of the Japanese he had met since coming here, polite but inscrutable men, formal in their Western dress and manner. 

“Tell me about the samurai,” he asked Graham, asking for more than a description of their martial prowess, wanting to understand what the Japanese all meant by the word, spoken with respect and awe. “Are they a separate, warrior tribe? Who are their allies?” 

“No, no, nothing of the sort,” the Englishman said, crossing his hands over his belly. “The samurai as a whole are the ruling warrior caste, the only ones legally allowed to bear arms, whether powerful aristocrats or impoverished, masterless warriors. It was a group of angry, disaffected samurai who, infuriated by the Shogun’s weak response to Western incursions, overthrew the Shogun and put the Emperor on the throne. Katsumoto, the leader of the rebellion, was one of architects of the Revolution.”

Algren grimaced. “And now Katsumoto is rebelling against the Emperor because he is treating too closely with the Western powers.”

“Er, yes,” Graham conceded. “You could put it that way.”

“You say that Katsumoto was one of the Emperor’s closest councillors. How many of the others were Katsumoto’s comrades? Are they likely to join him in rebellion?”

For a moment, the Englishman’s face was lit by a flash of wicked humour. “Well, if nothing else, you may be sure Omura is not likely to join him.” But then he sobered. “A number of Katsumoto’s less influential allies on the council have already joined him. But of the men closest to the Emperor, only Okubo and Katsura were as powerful as Katsumoto. They, too, were powerful figures during the Revolution. Okubo will not fight, though, because he has too much invested in this new era, and Katsura…” He trailed off, his eyes darkening as though in memory. “Katsura hung up his sword years ago. He keeps his hands clean, so that others may fight for him.”

Algren frowned, remembering the pleasant, inscrutable councillor who had greeted them, if not warmly, then at least politely, and then conversed for a few moments before wishing them well and moving on. There had been nothing to show that he was once a revolutionary, a veteran of vicious feuding, in-fighting, and open war. He had not been in any way fierce or warrior-like.

But nor had he been anything like Omura, whose power was in his wealth. 

Sitting up, Graham reached out to leaf through the paintings, sorting through them until he unearthed a terrifying shadowy figure drenched in crimson blood, with eyes like burning flame. “No,” the Englishman murmured, as it to himself, a private memory. “Katsura has not drawn steel for more than fifteen years. There has been no need.”

But when Algren wished to know more, intrigued, Graham would not be drawn, merely shaking his head and announcing that he was ready to retire. Bidding Algren a good night, the Englishman left him sitting there, by the fire, thinking on the nature of samurai, power, and the significance of the bloody shadow figure in the painting.


	9. Killing in the name of

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which I try my hand at Meiji himself, and fall prey to sentimentality. I don't think this little ficlet is one of my best, but there's some nice atmospheric description in the beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from Rage Against the Machine.

It had been a long night: an interminable meeting, followed by a slow, dangerous trip back to the inn. The Shinsengumi had been out in force, despite the relentless, pounding rain, and Kenshin had been forced to guide Katsura back via numerous side-streets and rubbish-strewn alleys. It was the fourth time in as many nights that Kenshin had returned to the inn as the night was fading to dawn, and he was weary with lack of sleep and constant tension. 

He rested in the corner of Katsura-san’s room, his katana propped against his shoulder, the black-lacquered sheath smooth and familiar to his palm. His mind absently catalogued his surroundings: the calm, hypnotic sounds of drumming rain and rustling, shifting scrolls, the mingled smells of paper, ink and the damp streets – all safe, familiar, even – dare he say it – comforting. His drowsing ki-sense touched on the hidden guards, alert and wary, and the other, sleeping samurai – calm, reassuring presences in the back of his mind, telling him that all was well with the night. 

From the direction of Katsura-san’s writing desk there was a long, weary sigh, and a last crinkling and rustling of parchment. Reluctantly, Kenshin roused himself and prepared to return to his own room. “Himura,” came Katsura-san’s quiet voice, “stay a while longer, will you?”

“Katsura-san?” he asked, concerned. 

“I see that you are growing disheartened, Himura,” Katsura-san said. “You keep to yourself more and more, and your drinking has increased… Takasugi charged me with your well-being, and I feel that I have not been watching over you as well as I should.”

Kenshin smiled a little at the thought of Takasugi-san, who drove himself unmercifully, not caring for the restraints of his failing body. 

“I am not disheartened, Katsura-san,” he reassured the older man. “It is only that the number of my victims is rising steadily, and still I cannot see any weakening of the Shogunate’s grip. Perhaps it is only that the weather is so depressing,” he added in a low voice.

“I see.” There was a long silence, and then Katsura-san sighed. “I cannot tell you with any certainty that we _will_ prevail. I can only say that I feel the wind slowly changing in our favour. The young boy-Emperor, Meiji, is with us, with the full force of divine right behind him; Satsuma is making overtures and speaking of alliance for the first time in centuries. Our momentum is growing, Himura. The Bakufu’s foundations are not as steady as they seem – a few more victories, enough support from the gai-jin and other, dissatisfied provinces…” He trailed off. “I always knew it was possible, but now I am starting to _believe_ it.”

“I have always believed it,” Kenshin said. “If I doubted, I could never have brought myself to make the first kill. Do you think,” he asked suddenly, “that the Emperor knows what we have done in his name?”

“If he does not know,” Katsura vowed, “I will tell him myself.” 

**

Years later, when the boy-Emperor was finally restored to his rightful position, Katsura told him of the sacrifices the young Himura Kenshin had made for the sake of the new era. Meiji would have publicly honoured the former Battousai for his actions. But Katsura only asked that the boy-Emperor acknowledge Battousai’s sacrifice, and in return, to ensure that he would always be worthy of it.


	10. White-wash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Will no one rid me of this meddlesome hitokiri?" Yet another look at the actions and decisions concerning the attack on Shishio. This was sparked by the beleaguered Shogunate general in sueb262's oneshot "The Newest Recruit", and of course by "Becket".

It was a time of great change and upheaval. 

The war was over. The last of the Shogunate loyalists came forward, one by one, to pay homage to the new boy-Emperor. And behind the scenes, Meiji’s advisors began the vast work that would see Japan take its place among the great nations of the world.

The Ishin Shishi and their allies, hidden for so long in the shadows, emerged into the new era washed clean of their terrorist past – the intimidation, the bombings, the assassinations, all forgiven by the Emperor’s divine restoration. 

**

Unfortunately, certain remnants of the Ishin Shishi’s past refused to stay in the shadows where they belonged. 

**

The discreet, whispered message brought Okubo to a small antechamber, where a ragged, blood-spattered captain knelt nervously. Okubo vaguely remembered the man – a penniless Satsuma samurai of more ambition than ability, quick to curry favour, eager to advance by any means possible. 

“Okubo-sama,” the samurai intoned, touching his head to the floor. “The hitokiri Shishio is dead.”

For an instant, Okubo felt a great weight lift from his back. But then shadowed memories of words spoken in half-drunken fury returned to him, of the night he had received Shishio’s latest extortionate demands. 

“We cornered him on the road, lord. He slew nearly one third of my company before we finally brought him to his knees.” And then, misinterpreting Okubo’s expression, the samurai hastened to reassure him. “There can be no mistake. We made sure of his death, lord – we set him alight, and then watched as he burned…”

**

Days passed with no more than a passing mention of Shishio Makoto’s maddened, suicidal attack on Imperial troops. Okubo began to believe that the matter would be forgotten, until the day Katsura drew him aside after an interminable Council meeting. 

They called for sake and refreshments, and for a while talked gently of unremarkable things – old allies, perhaps even friends, united in their vision of Japan. But Okubo knew Katsura of old, knew that his quiet, thoughtful manner hid a ruthless will of hammered steel. 

“So,” Katsura said, setting down his sake cup with a quiet ‘click’. “Shishio Makoto finally succumbed to his madness, as we all feared.” 

“He simply could not adjust to the new era.” Okubo shook his head gravely. 

“He was certainly most outspoken.” 

Okubo kept his expression impassive, cursing Katsura’s uncanny insight and widespread net of informants. He did not bother to fence. “I will not deny that Shishio’s death is a benefit to me. However, I had no hand in it.”

Katsura’s eyes were dark. “And yet, one could say that – indirectly – you made your enmity for Shishio clear. Remarkably indiscreet, old friend.”

Okubo’s mouth tightened. 

“I trust,” Katsura went on in that same mild tone, “that if you harbour any such ill-will for other former hitokiri, you will keep it to yourself? One such death is a senseless tragedy. Two…” he trailed off. 

The message was clear and pointed. Katsura had once been the most ruthless of all the Ishin commanders. During the bloodiest days of the shadow war, his selective assassinations had held Kyoto on the edge of terror for months on end; though hitokiri Battousai had vanished into the chaos and upheaval after Toba Fushimi, no one was – quite – sure that Katsura did not still control him. 

One thing, however, was not in doubt. Battousai was off limits. 

After a long moment, Katsura returned the conversation to safer waters. Okubo followed his lead, if not gratefully, then at least gracefully; he knew when to cut his losses and be thankful for his fellow advisor’s silence. 

Katsura had, after all, created hitokiri Shishio. 

They were united in benefiting from his death.


	11. Threads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another crossover with the Last Samurai. Two drabbles on Tom Cruise's miraculous slow-motion sword fight. And one because I love poor Mr. Graham.

**1\. Watcher**

**

Katsumoto has been dismissed from the Emperor’s Council. His followers, indignant on his behalf, are ripe for trouble; his enemies, sensing his weakness, gather like vultures, ready to attack. The blood-moon rides high in the sky, and Kenshin’s old instincts stir uneasily. 

It is a good night for bloodshed.

He watches it unfold from the shadows, longing to intervene. The gai-jin who rode into Tokyo in Katsumoto’s train – an American hired to train the Emperor’s army, not join with his enemies – heads blindly into an ambush, racing from the Imperial barracks to warn the Councillor of his impending assassination. 

And now the foreigner who would turn traitor to his own kind is surrounded in turn.

The attacking thugs circle him, drawing their knives and guns. Slowly, the foreigner draws his sword and sinks into position. Kenshin’s eyes narrow. He can feel the gai-jin’s ki stirring, can feel the focus of his will as he breathes slowly in and out – 

_A sword is a weapon._

_No mind._

_Kenjutsu is the art of killing._

Six armed men attack a lone foreigner, and are cut down one by one by one, until only the gai-jin remains.

**

**2\. Good Riddance**

**

The normally crowded streets are almost empty. Inns, ale-houses and shops that would normally be bustling with customers are closed up, windows tightly shuttered; the good citizens of Tokyo know better than to become involved in anything that involves armed men and samurai. 

And so Saito does not expect to find any witnesses. 

The cobblestones are stained with blood. The air is heavy with the smell of it, thick and sickly-sweet; with the ease of long practice, he suppresses the urge to gag. 

“Was it…a hitokiri?” the young policeman beside him asks nervously. 

Saito’s eyes narrow thoughtfully. His instincts are silent. It is well-trained work, yes, but this has none of _his_ brutal elegance. Besides, political assassination is not Katsumoto’s style; he is too grimly honourable for Katsura’s methods. 

Most likely it was one of Katsumoto’s men heading back to save his master. The dead men are nothing more than hired thugs, amateur killers; he recognizes one of Omura’s henchmen, and some fierce, untamed part of him rejoices. 

**

**3\. Reunion**

**

“Oh dear, oh dear,” Graham mutters to himself, wringing his hands nervously. He was not suited to this sort of thing; he was an interpreter, a failed diplomat, not a soldier or a spy. Really, this brought back all kinds of unpleasant memories of Kyoto, and the mess he had got into back then.

“Mr. Graham.” A low voice – a _familiar_ voice – spoke from the shadows.

“Oh, God!” he sputters, fighting to control his shaking hands. It was bad enough meeting Katsura at the reception, but the Minister was far less terrifying than this particular ghost of the Bakumatsu.

Still, an Englishman to the core, he gathers his courage and turns around. He doesn’t wonder how the assassin slipped into the heavily guarded Embassy; he’d collected enough ghoulish stories of his prowess to believe him capable of anything. And that was before he’d seen him in action on a dark, blood-stained night. 

Battousai steps out of the shadows, and for a moment Graham thinks him the same young, fiercely reserved killer who had saved his life so long ago. But years have passed, and there is a greater depth to him now – 

“Himura-san,” the Englishman says, managing a sickly smile. 

The assassin comes further into the room, and the fire plays over his copper-bright hair and feral gold-brown eyes. “You were seen at Katsumoto’s compound earlier this evening, Mr. Graham – you and the American president.” Unbelievably, his eyes crinkle with amusement. “I would leave Tokyo immediately if I were you.”

Graham shudders. This is what came of meddling in Japanese politics: a terrifying assassin coming to his rescue once more, dragging him from his safe, secure routine and into a nightmare. Some part of his flustered panic must have shown, because Battousai reaches out and grasped his forearm, stilling his restless fluttering. Graham freezes, remembering the terrifying young boy and his hair-trigger reflexes. 

“If you wish it,” Battousai offers, “I will escort you through the streets as I did before, and see you on your way.” There is compassion, and humour, and even some sort of understanding in his voice. 

Perhaps that is why Graham accepts his offer. 

Afterwards, though, he manages to avoid telling Katsumoto and Captain Algren how he got out of Tokyo.


	12. Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why didn't Kenshin simply dye his hair? A quick 100 word drabble.

Katsura-san had asked him once, in one of their few personal conversations, why he did not dye his hair, disguise the vivid red that made him so unmistakable. 

Kenshin had never quite known why. He thought it might have to do with one of his few, precious memories of _before_ : a woman’s soft voice, laughing as she tugged a wooden comb through his tangled hair, exclaiming at how very red it was – and how beautiful.

But perhaps in the end, it was because only demons had red hair, and he had no wish to deceive anyone, least of all himself.


	13. Near Misses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five times Nathan Algren caught a glimpse of hitokiri Battousai, and one time he meets Himura Kenshin. (Another Last Samurai crossover. Because I can.)

After the war, after he’d presented the young Emperor Meiji with Katsumoto’s sword and marched out of the palace with head held high, Nathan Algren returned to the mountain village and to Taka, who had been waiting patiently for his return. And there he stayed, for six months, a year; content to live his life in peace and immerse himself in the calm stream of Japanese life. 

He returned to Tokyo only rarely, wary of encountering any foreigners who might recognise the American who’d abandoned his own kind and gone native. But it was on one of these rare trips, some years later, that he bumped into a young red-head and spoke a quick, instinctive apology in English. 

The youth turned and regarded him out of a face clearly Japanese. And then it was that Algren realised his second mistake: this was no youth. Not with those eyes, and not with that old, faded scar. 

He recognised hitokiri Battousai instantly, of course. He’d come too close too many times not to make the connection.

**

1\. 

**

The first time Algren heard of the shadow assassin was on his very first night in Japan. 

The others had long since retired, pleading fatigue, but Algren and the English interpreter saw out the early hours of the morning with some very fine whiskey. Graham had been in Japan for more than fifteen years, and Algren wished to learn everything he could of this young, ambitious nation. They talked, or rather Graham talked, and Algren listened: of his coming to Yokohama with a British trade delegation in the early ‘60s; of how he had gradually come to learn the language and understand something of the people. At Algren’s prompting, he tried to explain exactly what the Japanese meant when they spoke of samurai. 

But, much later, as they prepared to retire for the night, Graham drew out a pile of journals and garishly coloured parchment woodcuts, pressed them on Algren with a shy smile. “Please, Captain Algren,” he said. “I have made something of a hobby of collecting these; they may give you some insight into the samurai beyond my poor powers of explanation.” 

The journals were Graham’s own translations, traditional tales of famous samurai and ronin loyal even beyond death, and the woodcuts were Japanese depictions to match. But one journal was a personal account, disappointingly sparse, of how a much younger Graham had once crossed paths with an extraordinary killer and lived to tell the tale. 

There was only one woodcut that could possibly match that account. For a long, long while, Algren stared at the shadow figure of crimson and gold ink, tracing his fingers along the characters that could only mean “Battousai”. 

He took the woodcut with him when he left Tokyo, folded carefully in the pages of his personal journal.

**

2\. 

**

The second time Algren heard anyone speak of the Battousai, it was on the dark, moonless night before the battle, as the young soldiers under his command sat around campfires, drank and told what Algren assumed were lurid ghost stories. It seemed that soldiers were all the same, whether in America or in Japan: fresh recruits were always fodder for terrifying tall tales.

He did not catch much of what they said, picking out only a few words: Kyoto, and Bakumatsu, and Battousai. His interpreter, a young, fresh-faced aide, gave him a sidelong glance in response to his query. 

“They are speaking of the great assassin,” he said softly, looking a little spooked himself. “The demon of the Bakumatsu, who came at the Ishin Shishi’s call to terrorise Kyoto whenever the blood moon was high. They tell of the time Battousai murdered Ogami Kyukichi in his own bed while one hundred guards patrolled outside.” 

The taleteller’s audience pressed closer, enthralled. Algren leaned closer with them.

**

3\. 

**

The third time came after he had survived the winter months in the mountain village, and the wet, muddy spring saw him taking lessons in the sword from the fierce master, Ujio.

“Again,” Ujio ordered gruffly, staring fiercely down at where Algren lay sprawled in the muddy grass, his bokken at Algren’s throat. “This time – no mind!”

Algren picked himself up, trying uselessly to brush off his hakama. Something fluttered out of his pockets, and before he could react, Ujio’s bokken had pinned it to the ground. There was a moment of silence as Ujio stared down at the woodcut, his expression impossible to read. 

“Himura-san,” he said quietly – almost sadly – then looked up at Algren. He spoke quickly, too quickly for Algren to follow: Algren looked to Nobutada, who was watching from the sidelines. 

“Ujio wants to know where you got that woodcut, Algren-san,” Nobutada translated. “He says there were only a very few prints ever made, and the artist died in the Bakumatsu.” 

“Tell him I got it from an Englishman named Graham,” Algren replied. He was looking at Ujio as he spoke, so he saw the way the other man’s eyes widened in recognition even without Nobutada’s translation. 

“You know him,” Algren breathed. “You know the Englishman, Graham – do you know hitokiri Battousai too?”

But Ujio only shook his head and refused to answer, his mouth set.

He did learn one more thing that day: Ujio drilled him for hours on a move designed to counter a swift attacking stroke that Nobutada called, with considerable awe, _battoujutsu._ Algren knew better than to ask why the master was so set on it.

Whatever tale there was behind Ujio’s silence, Algren never learned the truth of it. 

**

4\. 

**

Sunk deep into his stance, balanced, breath hissing in and out, Algren nevertheless retained enough awareness of his surroundings to catch sight of a shadow out of the corner of his eye, a flickering blur of – red?

A pressing sense of awareness flared against his mind – was this the _ki_ that Ujio had spoken of? – and Algren moved without thinking, his sword an extension of his will in a way that it had never been on the practice field. 

All through that extraordinary encounter, as seconds stretched into what felt like hours, as the hired killers surrounding him attacked and fell, one by one, he felt eyes watching him like an invisible promise of protection.

**

5\. 

**

The first and only time Algren and Taka and the boys travelled to Kyoto, they arrived under a blood moon. No matter that the Western part of Algren knew that it must be an atmospheric effect caused by an accumulation of dust or ash or the like in the air, he could not quite control the superstitious shiver that raced down his spine.* 

Taka had always hated Kyoto. “There are too many ghosts,” was all she would say, as she drew the screens closed to shut out the sky. “The streets are soaked with blood, and they do not forget.”

During the day it was just like any other Japanese city, more beautiful than most; by night, though, as they wondered back towards the inn from a restaurant Taka remembered, he could feel the hairs on the back of his neck bristling. 

Just as they passed a wide square, brightly lit with flickering gas lamps, a cold wind began to blow – 

One by one, the gas lamps went out. 

Algren drew Taka behind him, backed up until they stood against the wall of an imposing stone building. Slowly, he drew his pistol, wishing that he had been able to carry a sword into the city.

By the light of the blood-red moon they saw mist, writhing upwards from the cobblestones, coalesce into a ghostly tableau:

Transparent, flickering in and out of sight, the traditional architecture and buildings of Bakumatsu Kyoto replaced the more modern Western-style mansions. The shadows grew darker, thicker; coming towards them they heard feet pounding on the cobbles, echoes of voices shouting and calling in reply, and the ring of swords leaving the sheath. Before their wide, fixed eyes three men stumbled into the square, one of them bleeding heavily and leaning on his fellows. Their ghostly hunters spilled into the square behind them, implacable executioners with swords out and ready for the kill. 

Taka drew closer to him, close enough that he could hear her shuddering breath. “The Wolves of Mibu,” she whispered. “Shinsengumi.” 

From the corner of his eye, Algren saw the slender youth emerge from the deep shadows, saw him step between predators and prey. A stray shaft of crimson moonlight illuminated him, picking out the glint of cold pitiless eyes and the scarred ruin of his cheek. 

He stopped them in their tracks. 

For a long, long moment, they stared at each other, Shinsengumi and the youth who could only be the Ishin Shishi’s Battousai, tension crackling between them like a humming wire. And then the tension snapped – with a defiant roar, the Shinsengumi captain raised his sword and charged. His men followed, deep voices baying, spreading out to surround the assassin. Algren could not – quite – see what happened, but there was a sudden cry, and a gout of blood sprayed up into the night. 

“Look,” Taka whispered, squeezing his hand. “He buys time so they can flee.”

Unnoticed, overlooked and forgotten by the hunters, the three men who had been the Shinsengumi’s original prey were taking the opportunity to slip away as quickly and quietly as they could. While the assassin spun and ducked and slashed, other men melted out of the shadows on the other side of the square and helped the limping men to safety. 

Moments later it was all over – with a swift, brutal series of strokes Battousai cut down the last of the Shinsengumi, leaving them bleeding on the cobblestones, until he alone stood in the square under the blood-red moonlight. 

“Oh,” Algren breathed. Though he spoke as softly as he could, he saw the swift dart of the young assassin’s attention, felt – just for the moment – the full force of his _ki_. 

And then a cloud passed over the moon, throwing the ghostly tableau into darkness and shadow. By the time the moon was clear once more, the mist had faded and the ghost-visions gone. The square was empty, now, the gas-lamps burning and the buildings familiar once more, and any memory the streets might retain of events more than ten years past had faded into nothingness.

**

+1 

**

It was only the dark copper hair that had fooled Algren into thinking him another Westerner. He’d stammered out an apology in his still-limited Japanese; the youth – the assassin – had smiled warmly and greeted him, in turn, in English. 

“Please,” Battousai said, “my name is Himura.”

**

 

*Interesting science fact: according to Wikipedia, the great 5 minute research site, red moons are indeed caused by ash and dust clouds thrown into the atmosphere by fires or storms. To my knowledge, though, red moons do not cause mist-borne visions of past assassinations to rise from the cobblestones. That particular phenomenon cannot be explained by science.


	14. Opportunity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takasugi and Katsura discuss the morality of seizing the day.

“He is everything you promised,” Katsura says, his mind still on that extraordinary moment on the practice field: the young boy, and the lethal force of his sword. “But…how old is he?”

“Old enough,” Takasugi replies. Katsura glances up at him, his old friend and companion. “He is set on it, Katsura. If not now, if not us, then he will find someone else.”

The thought of that strength and conviction in someone else’s hands is terrifying. 

“Yes, the boy is an innocent,” Takasugi continues, relentless. “But he is here, now, at this time of opportunity, and willing to join us in our madness. Can you really afford to refuse his offer?”

Katsura does not hesitate. “No.” That was truth, cold, hard and unpalatable. If he truly wished to continue down his demon path, he needed Himura’s extraordinary blade, his innocent willingness to believe in an ideal future. He could not afford to let such a gift from the gods go. 

“Then do not regret what you must do. Do it, and count the cost on the other side.” 

Takasugi’s eyes burn with fervid brightness, spots of unhealthy colour high on his cheekbones. It is the fever, his debilitating illness – the vital flame of his remaining life burning twice as high as any other man’s. “What other choice do you have?”


End file.
